


Cursed Silence

by quirkykayleetam



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Exhaustion, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love Expressed Through Insults, Mild Language, Sharing a Bed, Sick Character, Sickfic, Two Idiots Both Trying To Sacrifice Themselves For Each Other, Voice Loss, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkykayleetam/pseuds/quirkykayleetam
Summary: As Jaskier's hangovers get worse and worse, Geralt finds himself with less and less patience to deal with them.What will he do when the pair are on the road and it turns out that something much worse is afoot, something that could threaten the bard's voice and his life?Get ready for self-sacrifice, magical deals, and pain that Geralt is willing to live with if it will bring his friend back whole.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 309





	Cursed Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first official fan fic, a reinvisioning of Bottled Appetites when Jaskier's life is threatened, but the wily mage Geralt meets isn't Yennifer at all. In the show, Geralt signs on to Yennifer's price, whatever it is, even "indentured servitude" to save his singing companion. I was wondering what other deals he might make. 
> 
> Here for all your Hurt!Jaskier and Sacrificing!Geralt needs with plenty of insults used to express affection, I present: Cursed Silence.
> 
> Feel free to find me on Tumblr for more like this and my original work @quirkykayleetam.
> 
> (Now edited to fix formatting and grammar mistakes.)

“Oh gods, this is it! I am paying the price for my life as a libertine. Luck and mercy have deserted me and I am now doomed to pain forever!”

Jaskier winced and covered his eyes as Geralt pulled back the curtain from their bedraggled upstairs room.

“See?” he moaned “Even the light assaults me cruelly! And sound, the call of my life, is nothing but agony.”

“You would think you’d shut up then,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier tried to sit up and tut in affront, but only ended up falling back to the blankets instead.

Geralt glance at his fri… traveling companion. Judging by the amount he drank last night, Geralt figured he had a splitting headache and a roiling stomach. It would pass. It wouldn’t pass without dramatics--that was Jakier--but it would pass all the same.

“We only have the room ‘til lunch,” Geralt said, moving to leave. If he slammed the door a little harder than necessary to hear Jaskier groan, that was his own business.

* * *

Geralt had to admit that Jaskier played the part of the hungover rake well. When he stumbled down the stairs of the end, his doublet was artfully unbuttoned to show just the right amount of chest hair. He blanched at the sausage Geralt offered him, opting instead for a broth so watered down it smelled more like bowl than soup.

Throughout the meal, he kept stealing glances at Geralt. The Witcher tried to ignore him, but finally the tension became too much.

“What.”

“We don’t exactly have pressing matters in the South, do we? We’re just moving on because that’s what we do. More people to see, more evil to fight, more good to do for the delight of the land!”

“What are you getting at?”

“We couldn’t, perhaps, linger one more day to nurse the headache of a dear, famous bard who needs his beauty rest to sing the praises of the White Wolf of Rivia?”

Geralt huffed.

“Fine. But it’s your coin.”

He turned to leave, wondering if there was a secluded area close enough by for hunting. With Jaskier sick, they would make slower time when they did leave and would need more provisions for the journey ahead.

He also did not fail to notice the small smile on the lithe bard’s face even as Jaskier sunk further onto the bench. Geralt hoped Jaskier could get some rest before he face-planted into his soup.

* * *

“Jaskier!”

The next morning Geralt jerked the curtain so hard it ripped off its rung. The Witcher threw it at Jaskier, pole and all, who barely groaned as it hit him in the stomach.

Jaskier was doing better, Geralt thought the night before, watching the bard cavort wildly. Sure, he stayed closer to the fire than normal and seemed to have some trouble remembering the words to his old songs, but when Geralt turned in for the night, Jaskier remained downstairs. Geralt’s last look saw the bard downing a toxic-smelling red concoction the innkeeper handed him while scanning the crowd with crazy hazel eyes.

“Geralt, I’m dying.”

“Dying in a grave you dug yourself, staying up half the night with a belly full of booze!”

“I happened to mention my ills to the innkeep,” Jaskier moaned. “Aches and pains, that kind of thing. He said he had just the cure: something about mulled wine and herbs. It numbed everything, Geralt, and I didn’t want the pain to come back.”

“Yeah, alcohol does that. Numbs you now, makes you feel it tomorrow.” 

He stalked to his saddle bags, feeling Jaskier’s pleading eyes on his back.

“No,” he said.

“What?”

“No, we are not staying another day for you to drink yourself to another oblivion. I’m getting Roach. Be downstairs in an hour or I will leave you.”

This time when Geralt slammed the door, he could have sworn he heard Jaskier sob.

* * *

Geralt was beginning to pace when Jaskier finally stumbled down the stairs. His clothes were rumpled but decent, his eyes glazed over but open. The biggest sign of his distress was his hair. Usually perfectly styled, it was now ruffled in ways that made Geralt think of nights spent in sex and debautery.

When Geralt slept badly, his white hair stuck to the side of his face in greasy strips like Roach had licked them. Of course that wouldn’t happen to Jaskier. Half asleep, bow-legged, and weaving from side to side, he simply looked beautifully dispossessed.

As the pair began their travels, Jakier shot a wistful shot at Geralt’s horse. Sure, the swaying movement of riding wouldn’t help his stomach, but he would give up all his gold and probably his trousers to rest on the animal rather than treading on his unsteady feet.

Geralt noticed.

“Don’t touch Roach,” he said.

Jaskier groaned.

* * *

Blessed silence.

Geralt never thought he would have too much of it. Now he had to glance behind him every two moments just to see if Jaskier was still on his feet.

To his credit, the bard was still keeping up. Geralt slowed his usual pace to give the man a break, noticing when Jaskier’s moans turned into whimpers and then heavy breathing, but he kept going. If Jaskier was going to make his life harder with drink, Geralt wasn’t going to entirely ease his pain. Jaskier did not complain. He shouldered his lute and limped after the Witcher, his face set in determination and hurt.

They were deep in the forest when Geralt suddenly heard Jaskier slow.

“Ger...Geralt...I can’t…”

Geralt swung off Roach immediately, ready to relent and let the bard ride the rest of the way, but he immediately stopped.

Jaskier was a trembling mess. It was cold outside, chill enough to leave frost on the tips of branches and leaves, but the bard sweated through his jacket. He huddled doubled over. With one hand, he clutched at his throat.

“Can’t breathe, Ger...I don’t know…”

With that, Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head. Geralt barely caught him before he fell to the ground.

It wasn’t just drunkenness; Geralt could tell as soon as he touched Jaskier’s paling skin. The bard was burning up from the inside. Even mostly unconscious, he whimpered each time Geralt had to shift Jaskier in his grip.

Cursing, Geralt didn’t know whether to spend more time settling Jaskier on Roach’s back or dashing off to get help.

There wasn’t a mage or a medic in the town they left. Geralt could get Jaskier there in hours, but the Witcher might not be able to do anything but watch Jaskier pant in agony. The bard needed medicine, a cooling bath, Geralt didn’t know what else. He just didn’t want to see Jaskier in any more pain. Or worse.

Golden eyes set on the horizon, he set off as fast as he dared. Every pitiful sound Jaskier made echoed through Geralt’s entire body.

He had done shit all to help Jaskier. Hopefully now he could persuade someone else to do more.

* * *

Dawn crested the hill behind Roach as Geralt finally spotted a town within reach. The village was a sizable, a good sign, though not a certain one. He patted the horse tiredly, glad that Roach hadn’t bucked at riding through the night. In the saddle beside him, Jaskier did not even whimper. The bard had stopped making even the smallest sounds long ago. The only thing keeping Geralt going was that he could see Jaskier’s weak, stuttering breath in the cold.

Geralt swung down beside the first open door he saw, that of an inn. The innkeeper was sweeping out the debris from the night before and took the Witcher’s coin.

“Doctor? Mage?” He inquired huskily.

“Mage. North side of town. Not sure if you can pay him though.”

Geralt jingled his bag of coin. The innkeeper shook his head.

“He’s one for strange deals and bargains. Some folk say he’s fair. Others say wily. Keep your wits about you, Witcher.”

Geralt thanked the man with another coin, but couldn’t give a damn about his wits. He’d lose them all if he could keep Jaskier alive.

He found the mage easy enough. While the man didn’t set up in a castle like some magicians, he made his profession clear enough; his three-story workshop was made of shimmery black stone that could only be enchanted. Either that or the man had spent lifetimes mining and shaping obsidian from the land’s farthest shores. Geralt figured he couldn’t rule that out.

Tying Roach to a tree outside and cradling Jaskier in his arms, he kicked at the ornate wooden door until someone answered it. Enough kicking, he supposed, and he could knock the bloody thing down, but it swung inward before Geralt had the chance.

“Witcher.” A spry man of indeterminate age, oaken skin, and jet black hair dressed blacksmith’s garb greeted him. “Please, come in.”

* * *

The wizard could clearly see Geralt’s purpose. He motioned the Witcher to a room on the third story with tightly shut windows, a fire in the hearth, and a bed for Jaskier. Geralt laid the bard down somewhat reluctantly. He wanted Jaskier to get better, but he didn’t trust wizards, however benign they seemed.

The wizard cleared his throat and Geralt turned to face him, keeping his body between the mage and Jaskier’s unconscious form.

“So,” the man began, “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blavikin, has traveled all this way to…”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Pardon me?” the wizard said. He took a step back but looked more intrigued than insulted by the interruption.

“Can you heal him?” Geralt said, his voice a low growl.

“Are you sure you can pay my price? Surely someone must have told you…”

“Yes,” Geralt said.

“Why?” The wizard’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ll do anything.”

The moment the words left Geralt’s mouth, he knew they were true. Maybe he hadn’t chosen this life, but it was his and he was well suited for it. Jaskier was soft. He enjoyed fine cloth and finer wine. He deserved to sing in a palace and sleep on silk sheets every night instead of cavorting around with a twice-damned Witcher.

“It’s Vale’s Fever,” the mage said. “Comes on like the common flu, just quicker, until it steals the victims voice. Has it gone that far?”

Geralt nodded.

“Jaskier… He said he couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s it then,” the wizard said, turning from Geralt to examine the potions on his work bench in the corner. “I’ll give you this, I’ll tend to your friend, Jaskier, and save his life if I can, but only for the work you give me. I’ve got a workshop downstairs where I smelt metals important to me. For twelve hours of manual labor, I’ll give you twelve hours of medical care for your friend.”

“And the nights?” Geralt asks. “What happens if he needs help during the night.”

“Not my problem,” the wizard said. “Days for days is all I offer.”

“Fine,” Geralt growled. He wasn’t bednurse, but if he had to see Jaskier through a few feverish nights without throwing things at the bard, he supposed he could do it. “Show me where to start working.”

“Ah, ah ah,” the wizard said, holding up a finger. “That is simply the deal to save the man’s life. His voice on the other hand…?”

It took all of Geralt’s control not to slam the wizard into the glimmering stone behind him.

“What about his voice?”

“Terrible thing about Vale’s Fever. Most of those who survive never speak again. That I can restore magically…”

“What’s your price?”

“I’m a fair man,” the wizard said liberally, showing Geralt his palms. It didn’t soften the Witcher’s temper. “A voice for a voice is a fair trade, wouldn’t you think?”

“Fine,” Geralt said. “Do it.”

“Don’t you want to hear more about the process?”

“No,” he said darkly. “I stop talking and the bard sings again. Works well enough for me,”

No one but Roach will miss it anyway, he thought. And Jaskier without a voice? That would be like a bird without wings or a Witcher with purple hair. The bard might as well be dead as mute.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t swat the wizard’s hand away as he moved forward and tapped Geralt’s throat.

Magic flowed through the Witcher, causing Geralt to fall forward and clutch his throat. It felt like all the air inside of him suddenly expelled itself in a whirlwind of vacuum. He felt dizzy, but wouldn’t give the wizard the satisfaction of seeing it. Straightening, he opened his mouth to test the spell, first trying a whisper, then a curse, then a bellow. No sound came out.

The wizard smiled. Geralt glared. Together, they went downstairs to the workshop.

* * *

For five days, Geralt labored under the mage’s command. For the most part, he tended the bellows, keeping the wizard’s massive fire stoked to extraordinary temperatures. Whatever he was smelting, the mage needed it constantly, consistently scorching and he was ready to leverage the Witcher’s enhanced strength and endurance to keep it so.

By the end of each day, Geralt arms ached with exhaustion. His hands and forearms were black with ash. When he washed that layer of grime away, it showed only open burns from the flames that made him wince and curse. Each day he wanted to demand leather gloves or more than the small waterskin he was given from the mage, but each night he forgot to do so in his rush to Jaskier’s side.

“Better,” is all the mage would say. Geralt had to take his word for it.

From sundown to dawn, the Witcher sat in the hard-backed chair by Jaskier’s bed. He used clean clothes to wipe the sweat off the bard’s forehead and clutched the slender man’s arms when he seized in his sleep. Each day it became harder and harder for Geralt to stop his head from drooping onto his chest during the quiet moments of the night, but he fought off the urge with every spark inside of him. He couldn’t do anything else for Jaskier, so he would sure as hell do this.

On the fifth night, Geralt caved. His limbs felt like leaden turnips. Jaskier was making sounds again, but shivering under the sheets. Geralt crawled in bed next to him, wrapping his arms around the bard.

“Be warm, dammit. Be well!” he thought with force and ire as his eyes closed.

Jaskier relaxed as his fever dwindled, curling closer to Geralt in the dark.

* * *

As dawn flooded the chamber the next morning, Geralt awoke to a familiar pair of hazel eyes.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Jaskier said sleepily. “But normally when I wake up with a headache in a strange room, not remembering how I got there, I’m not in bed with you.”

Geralt glared.

“I’m glad you’re alive, you stupid git,” he thought, but he couldn’t very well say it, so he got up and started packing their bags, taking extra care not to manhandle Jaskier’s lute.

“Ah, so the sleeping beauty awakes!” the wizard said with a flourish, bursting into the room.

He turned to Geralt.

“The Vale’s Fever is cured and your friend is upright and speaking. I take it that you are satisfied with both of your deals.”

Geralt grunted his assent, trying to subtly motion Jaskier to go. Sadly, subtle was not exactly in Jaskier’s vocabulary.

“Deals? What are you talking about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the curing and all. But Geralt, what the hell did you do? Because if it was something daring, I have a great need to sing about it and if it was something, reckless I have a great need to berate you about it until you dunk me in a lake. Or something. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’re infinitely creative.”

The wizard laughed. Geralt wanted to strangle him. Possibly he wanted to strangle Jaskier too, but the wizard was definitely his priority.

“Nothing of the sort, my dear Jaskier. Our Witcher friend simply engaged in a modest trade. Your illness often leaves its victims mute. He swapped his voice for yours, nothing fancy.

“Switch it back.”

“Pardon me?”

The Witcher stared at Jaskier as well, both because the bard was advocating for madness and because it was probably the shortest sentence Geralt had ever heard him say.

“You heard me. Undo the deal. I was unconscious and did not agree to it so make it, I don’t know, poof. Vanish. Go off into the air. 

“Yes, I tend to use my voice a bit more liberally than our dear Witcher, but it’s for publicity. If it wasn’t for him saying things that mattered, we would both be dead four times over. Besides, I’m the normal person tagging along here. My songs are important, but come on, I’m not. The last Witcher you’ll see this age? That is. Geralt has a purpose or a destiny or whatever you want to call it that won’t get my teeth kicked in and he damn well needs a voice for that.”

“Very well,” the wizard said. “It’s your voice.”

He strode forward to touch Jaskier’s throat, but Geralt blocked his way.

“No,” the Witcher thought sternly.

“You heard the bard,” the wizard said. “You’re the important one.”

Geralt shook his head.

“You really want to argue with that?”

The Witcher nodded.

The wizard looked quizzical, but stepped back, raising his hands. With a gesture, the windows by the bed burst open and wind filled the room.

Geralt felt air rushing into his lungs. It felt like a punch in the gut, but he was ready for it this time.

He whirled on Jaskier.

“As soon as we get Roach, I’m going to kill you,” the Witcher growled.

“Can you at least let me get a meal first? And maybe some ale? I’ve always dreamed of dying with a full stomach and, hey, it’ll make it harder for me to run away.”

Both travelers looked at the mage in shock.

He shrugged and smiled, easing Geralt’s aches with another gesture and soothing the burns on his hands with a wave of his palm.

“You,” he said, “have proven yourself worthy of magic without a price. Those who would, without question, sacrifice all for another, deserve all in return.”

This time, Geralt didn’t hold back from slamming the man into the wall behind him.

“So this is what you do,” he said. “You ‘test’ people. Now tell me, who are you, shitbag, to determine who is and isn’t worthy.”

“Why, I’m a wise, discerning…”

Geralt pressed his forearm into the man’s windpipe.

“No. You’re a manipulative ass who gets off on playing power games by pretending it’s authority. You shouldn’t help people because they deserve it. You should do it because they need it. How many people have died from diseases you could have cured because they were too scared to pay your price? How many children have lost their mothers because they didn’t have someone to plead for them?”

“Now be reasonable,” the wizard said, his voice slightly less bold. “You work for pay. You’re not just out there slaying monsters because someone needs to do it.”

“Actually, we’ve missed several meals to that ideal,” Jaskier said, moving to his pack. “Ended up staying outside in wretched weather too. It’s not like Geralt finds something killing people and decides to ignore it just because folks aren’t putting up a bounty. Honestly, I think my profession gets us more money in the long run.”

“Fine,” the man said. “Let’s say I’ve had a change of heart. I’ll try your way. For one year, anyone who asks an honest boon of me will get it, free of charge or deals. What do you say to that?”

Geralt stepped back, letting the man’s boots touch the floor.

“I’ll see you in a year, wizard.”

With that, he snagged his bags and turned to go.

* * *

Jaskier trailed behind Geralt as he untied Roach and mounted the horse.

“Out with it,” Geralt said.

“Thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“Contrary to what you might think, you are important Jaskier, which is why from now on you’re going to tell me when you’re sick and not just drunk off your ass!” the Witcher snapped.

“Hey, I tried!” Jaskier said. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re not exactly the most sensitive person on the continent. I was just trying to keep up with you!”

“Even if it kills you!”

“Apparently so!”

The pair glared at each other before Jaskier shouldered his lute and fell in perfect step behind Roach and Geralt, like he was meant to be there.

“Now, I appreciate you willing to take the extra hit for me, but I’m a little insulted that you don’t think I can make my living with just my glorious looks and extraordinary lute skills. My songs are my strong suit, don’t get my wrong, but I don’t have to sing them. I could sell them off line by line, the tune first, of course, then the words. I’d have people humming tunes before they even knew what they were about! Just think of it…”

Geralt sighed. Once Jaskier got going he wouldn’t hear a lick of silence for the rest of the day. The Witcher had to bite back a smile at the thought.


End file.
